


make me feel like i'm home

by merlypops



Series: schoolyard and battlefield [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Normal Life, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Boyfriends, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Draw Me Like One of Your French Girls, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Happy Ending, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mild Sexual Content, Parenthood, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-War, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Recovery, no serum, that tag is legit and I'm not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-14
Updated: 2019-06-24
Packaged: 2020-03-05 09:43:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18826123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/merlypops/pseuds/merlypops
Summary: So if we knew all alongWhy did it take so long?We've known since we were young,So why did it take so long?You know you make me feel loved;Make me feel like I'm home,So if we knew all alongWhy did it take so long?“I’m sorry you had to go,” Steve breathes, his hands trembling when Bucky reaches to tangle their fingers together. The younger man calms fractionally and Bucky feels something warm melting in his chest at the fact that he can still calm his boyfriend now, even after everything that happened. Maybe notallof before is lost. Maybe Bucky can find himself again.Bucky returns from the war in pieces and Steve puts him back together again.Based on "So Long" by Niall Horan.





	1. Spring, 1951

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, everyone!  
> Endgame tore my heart out and my Stucky heart is still aching so I've decided to write a sequel to my last Stucky fic (which you should definitely read first for context). This is a direct continuation of that fic.  
> I really hope you'll all enjoy this :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for reference to war and injury, panic attacks, anxiety, and PTSD.

Sometimes, Bucky isn’t sure he’s strong enough to carry on.

He has been back in Brooklyn for several months already and, despite how irreparably his life has been torn apart, the world around him hasn’t changed. Old Mrs Kowalski still runs the delicatessen two streets over; there are still daffodils emerging on the green; the marketplace still reeks of desperation and poverty; Steve still loves him... but Bucky can't think about Steve tonight.

If he does, he will remember the sadness and disappointment on his boyfriend’s face when Bucky’s anxiety ruined their Christmas celebrations. He will remember the reedy whine of Steve’s asthma and the shame on the younger man's face when he came home a few weeks ago after being mugged, bruised and shaken, and injured because Bucky hadn't been there to look out for him.

If he does, Bucky will cry and never, _ever_ stop.

Time doesn’t pass the same anymore. It is fractured, flitting by in disjointed bursts or dragging for what feels like eternity. Bucky will be thirty four in a few weeks which feels unreal. Back in the trenches, he didn’t imagine he’d even make it to thirty. Sometimes, when he remembers the bullying back on the playground and all of the fights he had to rescue Steve from, he's surprised he even reached twenty.

When Bucky first came home in the winter last year, the window was cold against his cheek. There were whorls of ice on the glass. It’s clear now though, damp with condensation as the sun sets outside and he closes his eyes in exhaustion. Bucky’s phantom arm weighs him down like concrete. His heart aches.

“Hey, Buck.” Steve’s voice is soft, drawing him back the way it always does. “Ready to sleep?”

Bucky slips down off the windowsill stiffly, his trembling hand rising automatically to self-consciously cover the stump where his arm had been torn away. He remembers the explosion like it was yesterday; remembers the blood in his mouth and the ringing in his ears; remembers how bright the sky shone overhead and how his agonised screams were silent, and how he hurt so badly that he could feel nothing at all.

Steve goes to Bucky wordlessly, soft palms settling on the older man’s cheeks, foreheads brushing when he stretches up to close the distance between them. The sobs rise in Bucky’s chest like tidal waves and he hates himself for the boiling tears that overflow; hates himself even worse when he sees the misery reflected back at him in Steve’s beautiful eyes.

“You’re still my Bucky,” Steve says quietly, like he’s confessing a secret. In that moment, he doesn’t look any different than he did when they first met, just two little kids with grass-stained clothes and laughter in their hearts. His honey-coloured hair is still just as soft and smooth. His eyes are still a pretty ocean blue, flecked with green and gold.

Bucky is the one who has changed almost beyond recognition. He is the one who was torn apart and forced back together again, all mismatched parts and jagged edges, bleeding and aching and _raw_. Sometimes, on the darkest nights when Bucky is falling apart in the darkness, he thinks maybe the man Steve loved died down in the trenches. Bucky wonders if he’ll ever feel warm again.

He doesn’t realise the breaths are scraping their way out of his lungs in panicked gasps until Steve gently cradles his face, his pretty eyes sadder than they’ve ever been, his thumbs smoothing over the older man’s cheekbones comfortingly. The sun has sunk behind the roofs of the houses outside and the light in their bedroom darkens. Bucky slumps like all of the air has seeped out of him.

Once upon a time, it had been his job to talk Steve down from panic attacks; to soothe him with hugs and kisses until his boyfriend felt okay again. Now it appears to be Steve’s turn instead and Bucky isn’t sure he can accept the comfort. No matter how many loving touches Steve bestows upon him, they still feel alien after Bucky’s years in the prison camp.

Steve’s heart feels like it belongs to somebody else.

“Why’d you put up with me?” Bucky whispers when his forehead falls to rest heavily on the smaller man’s shoulder. “I’m not worth all this, Stevie.”

“Shut up,” Steve reprimands, his tone too soft to be angry. “You’re worth the whole damn world, Buck, and don’t you forget it.”

He nudges Bucky down onto their mattress gently but he doesn’t follow him. Steve stays standing between his boyfriend’s legs instead, his fingers combing gently through the older man’s long hair as Bucky’s eyes slide shut in exhaustion. They flicker open when Steve kisses his forehead and Bucky smiles crookedly, his cheeks damp with tears.

“When you were gone, there wasn’t a day that went by when I didn’t miss you,” Steve admits, his words little more than a whisper. “There were only so many evenings I could spend with your parents; only so many late-night walks I could go on 'til the ache faded a little.” Steve’s thumb smooths across the stubble growing on Bucky’s jaw and he shivers, leaning into the touch. “I used to go sit with your motorcycle in the storage container sometimes,” Steve says quietly, letting out a watery sound: half-laugh, half-sob. “Used to smell the engine oil and the leather; was like having you beside me again.”

“I never wanted to leave you,” Bucky whispers and Steve flinches; knows it was his fault and hates himself for it… but Bucky could never hate Steve. Not for anything.

“I’m sorry you had to go,” Steve breathes, his hands trembling when Bucky reaches to tangle their fingers together. The younger man calms fractionally and Bucky feels something warm melting in his chest at the fact that he can still calm his boyfriend now, even after everything that happened. Maybe not _all_ of before is lost. Maybe Bucky can find himself again.

There is a realisation dawning inside him; a stunned mixture of awe and pain saturating the older man’s expression as he gazes up at Steve in shock. It is strange to appear smaller than Steve; strange to feel so vulnerable and weak in the younger man’s thin arms.

“You kept the bike?” Bucky chokes out and… yes, that’s it. That’s what was rising quite so painfully in his aching chest as his heart swells with love. The tears are rolling down both of their cheeks now and Bucky’s lips part around the wordless sob he can feel building inside him. His phantom arm throbs in a sickening reminder that he’ll never be able to ride the motorcycle again but, somehow, that pales in comparison to the affection he feels at the bashfulness on Steve’s face. “Even after all this time?”

“Of course I did,” Steve says gently, his eyelashes spiky with tears. “It belongs to you, Buck. I’d sooner throw away all my art supplies than get rid of your bike.” He huffs out a watery laugh, his shoulders slumping as he finally succumbs to his weariness, crawling onto the mattress beside the older man. “Used to think you loved that bike more than me sometimes.”

“I could never,” Bucky says earnestly, his voice thick with tears as he reaches out with his remaining hand to cradle Steve’s cheek, his fingertips sliding clumsily over the younger man’s sharp cheekbone. “Never, Stevie.”

They slip under the blankets quietly, their limbs tangling automatically as Bucky curls up small as he can against his boyfriend’s narrow chest. The reedy whine of Steve’s asthma is almost non-existent tonight and Bucky relaxes a little; feels the last of the tension leaking from his muscles when Steve presses a soft kiss to the back of his neck.

' _Oh_ ,' Bucky thinks as he presses back into the warmth of his boyfriend’s arms, his heartbeat calming with every moment. ' _ **This** is what I was fighting to get back to.'_

“Love you, Stevie,” Bucky whispers, small and scared. Steve cuddles him closer, a relieved sigh slipping into the darkness.

“Good,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the older man’s shaggy brown hair. “I love you too, Buck. Always will.”

Bucky closes his eyes, his lips curving into a faint smile as the moon shines in the night sky outside.

For the first time since he staggered off the train, Bucky feels like he’s finally home.


	2. Summer, 1952

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I'm updating already... Don't blame me; blame Stucky for giving me too many feels.  
> I hope you'll all enjoy this :')  
> It felt very refreshing to write!

The day is warm and bright, the sky a clear blue overhead. The wisps of white cloud have long-since burnt away as the sun rises higher and Bucky fumbles to unbutton his collar as he slumps lower in the passenger seat of their new motor car. Steve sits in the driving seat, dressed in his usual garb of a white shirt and braces over khaki trousers. His hair is neat as ever and Bucky reaches out to run his fingers through it, leaving the locks sticking up messily as Steve glances at him, a weak scowl on his pale face.

“Punk,” he says, like a term of endearment. “I’m taking you on holiday and this is the thanks I get?”

“Haven’t even told me where we’re going yet,” Bucky grumbles, trying not to smile… trying not to process the _reason_ Steve has booked a month of leave from his job as an art teacher at the local college. Bucky knows his parents have been worried about him; knows they’ve wanted him to leave Brooklyn behind for a little while and focus on healing.

It’s easier said than done. A change of scenery won’t be enough to solve his problems, because Bucky’s been trying and failing to find work. He’s been trying to keep Steve from worrying so much; trying to help out around the house and stop being so goddamn useless all the time. Bucky’s been trying to find a reason to live again.

Slowly but surely, he’s getting used to his lost arm, no matter how much resentment he feels lingering bitterly inside him. He can dress himself alone now, albeit not on the bad days when he can’t even drag himself out of bed. He can wash himself and prepare simple meals. He can still make Steve come apart if the mood takes them; just has to be more inventive instead; needs to use his mouth instead of just relying on his hands which is certainly no hardship on Bucky’s part.

Steve smirks a little, keeping his pretty eyes fixed on the road ahead, his lips curving up like he can tell what his boyfriend is thinking.

“Told your parents we were going to Pennsylvania,” Steve says conversationally, the very picture of innocence. “Which is sort of true, I suppose.”

“That’s a state,” Bucky points out, a little sourly. “Unless you wanna play at being drifters for the summer, Stevie, then I hope you’ve got a more concrete destination in mind.”

“I do,” Steve admits, those beautiful words sending a thrill of melancholy and wistfulness through Bucky’s chest at everything they can never have… at just how much he **wants**. Steve reaches out riskily for a moment, giving his boyfriend’s thigh a comforting squeeze as he smiles unconsciously, keeping his pretty eyes fixed straight ahead. “It’s a town called New Hope, Buck,” he explains with poorly-suppressed glee. “Ever heard of it?”

Bucky feels something tighten in his chest as he gazes at his boyfriend in wonder.

Of _course_ Bucky has heard of New Hope. In the circles they move in, it would be impossible _not_ to hear about the gay community in Bucks County and just how welcoming the people there are. New Hope has fast become a very popular holiday destination for the queer folk of America and Bucky can’t quite keep the smile from spreading across his face as he bites his lip, gazing at Steve admiringly.

“I can’t believe you’ve planned this, Stevie,” Bucky murmurs, his blue eyes sparkling as the car flies over the tarmac. “You’re the sweetest guy I’ve ever met.”

“Course I am,” Steve teases, brazen grin firmly in place as he steps on the gas, leaving Brooklyn far behind them. “That’s why you love me.”

Bucky laughs in response, the sound taking him by surprise although his happiness doesn’t fade with his initial shock. A smile is growing on his face instead, spreading as slow as treacle, and his mood only brightens from the moment they first arrive in New Hope.

The town sits on the western bank of the Delaware River, crouched over the sparkling blue water as the sun smiles down from the cornflower sky. The air is hot and heavy but the humidity is a welcome change from New York, and Bucky has never felt further from the trenches than he does during those sun-soaked days with Steve as they explore New Hope together.

They stay in a small cabin on the outskirts of town, kindly paid for by Bucky’s parents, and every morning when Bucky wakes, he feels lighter than he did the day before.

They wander the winding Main Street in the mornings after breakfast, visiting the antique stores and the art galleries, and the grassy areas where they simply sit to soak up the sunshine before noon. They sample as many different restaurants and diners as they can at mealtimes, and Bucky feels so content as he dines with Steve, their ankles hooked together under the table out of habit before they remember that it’s safe to hold hands in public here.

It feels so special the first time they tangle their fingers and no one bats an eyelid, and Bucky knows without a doubt that this is the moment when he finally begins to heal. He is accepted here, regardless of his past or who he loves. Strangers smile at one another beneath the golden sunshine. Steve kisses him on a street corner and they receive an indulgent smile from passers-by.

Bucky has never felt so safe.

On their last day in New Hope, they see a play at the Bucks County Playhouse and eat hamburgers at their favourite diner, and visit all of the tiny art shops Steve fell in love with during their holiday. They walk down the street hand in hand, without fear of prejudice or harm, and Bucky knows without a doubt that he will never forget the wonder of feeling absolutely safe in his own skin.

Steve gifted him with this incredible experience.

Steve helped him begin to heal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to those who have read this already :)  
> I'd love to hear what you thought of this chapter <3  
> I also really want to visit New Hope now because it sounds amazing :')


	3. Autumn, 1954

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! I'm back again because apparently I find it impossible to write Stucky fics slowly.  
> I hope you'll all enjoy this - it felt a bit different to what I usually write with these two but fingers crossed you like it :)
> 
> P.S. The tag "Draw Me Like One Of Your French Girls" was just too good to pass up with this chapter... sorry not sorry.
> 
> Trigger warning for mild sexual content.

Sarah Rogers’ old house is quiet tonight; the only sounds the dried leaves stirring in the street outside; the scratch of Steve’s pencil as his eyes drink Bucky in. The lamp emits a muted golden glow in the corner of the room, casting inky shadows across the smooth wooden panels of the floor. The nervousness has long since melted from Bucky’s face and he is bolder now, arm tucked behind his head, muscles rippling as he stretches out luxuriously on the couch, all bare skin and long limbs.

Steve blushes as he sketches the outline of his boyfriend’s thigh, the subtle curve where his leg meets his hip, the scrape of a scar sustained during the war that does nothing to detract from the beauty of his pearly skin. Bucky shifts under his boyfriend’s gaze, cheeks flushed, eyes sparkling through the darkness.

“Stevie,” he says, low and soft. “Is this how you imagined?”

Steve shivers, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip. He nods wordlessly, not trusting himself to speak, and Bucky smirks like the cat that’s got the cream as Steve shades in the way the shadows are dappling his naked form; the play of light across his abdomen, casting his muscles into stark relief; the sharp line of his cheekbone visible now that his dark hair has been cut short again, the way it was back when he first went to war.

The style takes years from him and Steve finds himself transfixed for a moment as he gazes at the boyfriend who – for a very long time – had seemed lost to him. It doesn’t matter that there are lines around Bucky’s eyes or that his hair is streaked with silver now because both of those things simply show that Bucky is alive. He is still the same man Steve fell in love with, minus an arm. He is the bravest, strongest, most beautiful person Steve has ever met.

“My Buck,” Steve says, soft and warm. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Bucky replies, stretching out and blushing a little at Steve’s intake of breath as his pretty eyes drift down the length of his boyfriend’s toned body. “Is thirty seven too old to let your boyfriend draw you naked? People might talk, Stevie.”

“I’d make you my husband if I could,” Steve mutters, low and fast, his eyes still glued to his sketchbook. “But it wouldn’t matter, would it?” he continues as he shades in the way his boyfriend’s hair falls endearingly over his forehead; the twist of muscle and scar tissue that makes up the stump of his shoulder; the way he’s half-hard against his thigh, just from Steve’s eyes roaming over him. “People will talk no matter what, Buck. Why shouldn’t we have some enjoyment along the way?”

Bucky smiles faintly, his eyes glittering as his gaze drifts to the ceiling. The scratch of Steve’s pencil is slower now, the way it always is when he’s making the finishing touches to a drawing. That means the impromptu art session is almost over and Bucky feels butterflies fill his stomach as his eyes meet Steve’s, a hiss of breath escaping him when he sees those beautiful eyes gleaming with promise.

Steve sets the snub of pencil down with a note of finality and Bucky shivers when his boyfriend rises fluidly, his shirt mostly unbuttoned, his fingertips stained with graphite. There is something challenging in Steve’s eyes that makes Bucky groan in anticipation and he does nothing to keep quiet; knows that the sounds he makes drive Steve wild. It seems that the real fun is about to begin.

“You sat so well for me, Buck,” Steve says softly as he cards his fingers through his boyfriend’s hair. He remains standing, relishing the fact that – at least like this – he is taller and bigger than Bucky, able to better fill the role he so desperately desires. “Did so good for me.”

“I did?” Bucky asks, blue eyes already cloudy with lust.

“Sure you did,” Steve murmurs, his lips curving into a smirk. “And didn’t I tell you I’d make it worth your while?”

“Yeah,” Bucky whispers, eyes falling shut when Steve straddles him, palms settling warmly on the older man’s chest, lips hot against Bucky’s throat.

“You meant what you said, Stevie?” Bucky gasps out, his back arching when the younger man’s hands slide teasingly lower, his fingertips smoothing over the trail of dark hair as Bucky’s hips rock up unconsciously. “About making me your husband?”

Steve blushes, eyes glitter-soft as he stretches up to capture his boyfriend’s lips in a tender kiss.

“Yeah, I did,” Steve admits fondly, gazing down at Bucky like he’s something to treasure. His body is warm over Bucky’s, his golden hair rumpled as the pink flush stains his cheeks, his breaths easy and deep tonight.

The love burning in Bucky’s chest reminds him of the day of their very first kiss for a moment; reminds him of the night when they’d fallen down into Steve’s bed and the way the warmth had bloomed in Bucky’s stomach with every kiss Steve pressed to his skin. Bucky remembers that Steve called him a work of art and he isn’t sure whether he wants to laugh or cry as his hand slides to the nape of his boyfriend’s neck, his trembling fingers tangling gently in the soft blond hair.

Sometimes, when Steve is gazing down at him like that and the mood is right, it’s almost like nothing has changed at all.

Bucky still feels beautiful.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3


	4. Winter, 1956

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone. I've been having a shit few days but instead of writing angst, I actually managed to write fluff!  
> Please, be proud of me :P

Steve’s asthma is always worse in winter. The icy, dry air irritates his airways and sends him coughing, and he’s always caught every bout of cold or flu he comes into contact with. For once, though, his spirits remain high.

They’ve decorated the house for Christmas, stringing up the old paper garlands that Steve remembers from his childhood and keeping the candles on the mantelpiece alight. It’s the first year since Sarah’s death and Bucky’s return where Steve’s felt truly felt happy during the holiday, and even his asthma can’t put a dampener on that.

Bucky is sitting cross-legged on the couch beside him, dressed in an over-sized sweater with the empty sleeve tied in a knot to keep it from getting in the way. His hair is growing longer again, drawn back into a messy knot that Steve fashioned that morning although, after a day of laughter and a brisk post-lunch walk, the brown locks are beginning to fall loose. Steve takes great delight in reaching to remove the elastic, his fingers carding through his boyfriend’s soft hair reverently. Bucky hums with satisfaction, eyes sliding shut as he leans into the warmth of Steve’s palm.

Bucky has seemed a lot happier lately, a fact that Steve and Bucky’s elderly parents are thrilled about. He’s coping with his injury better than ever and he’s even started training at Goldie's Boxing Gym again which makes Steve so proud he could burst. A few months before, Bucky finally secured work in a local garage, mending vehicles and assisting with the paperwork, and when he came back home on his first day – splattered in engine oil and sorely needing a bath – the grin on his face had been dazzlingly bright.

Steve missed that beautiful smile immensely. He loves Bucky so much it hurts.

“I like seeing you so happy, Stevie,” the older man says warmly, taking the words straight out of his boyfriend’s mouth. “You kinda glow when you’re smiling this much.”

“Says you,” Steve murmurs, his eyes softening as he reaches to stroke the older man’s jaw. “Looking at you is like looking at the sun.”

Bucky blushes, searching frantically for a silly comment to make.

“Why?” he asks smugly. “Because I’m blindingly poetic?”

“You’re a punk, punk,” Steve says reproachfully, letting out an unwilling laugh as he shoves his boyfriend’s broad shoulder weakly. “I’m an artist; not a poet.”

“Well, I'm some strange mechanic-clerk hybrid so that’s no excuse,” Bucky teases, eyes twinkling. His expression is soft with fondness though and he relaxes easily, reaching to tangle his fingers firmly with Steve's. “Your chest sounds a bit looser,” he notes in relief. “You should probably still try to sleep sitting up tonight though, Stevie, if you can. You know laying down makes your asthma worse sometimes.”

“That I do,” Steve agrees, smiling gratefully at the thought of how caring his boyfriend is. Bucky’s eyes have gone glitter-soft, his lips parting just a little as he gazes at Steve through the dim light as the snow settles outside.

“I do,” Bucky repeats faintly, his tone undeniably wistful. “I love when you say those words.”

“Oh yeah?” Steve murmurs, his lips curving into a smile as he crawls closer, bracketing the older man’s thighs with his knees as they sink into the couch cushions. He ducks his head to kiss Bucky’s jaw, pressing back into the warmth of his boyfriend’s palm when Bucky strokes his back soothingly through his shirt. “Why’s that then, Buck?”

“You can’t work that out on your own?” Bucky asks, smiling crookedly. “Thought you were meant to be the smart one, Stevie.”

“Nah, I’m the muscle,” Steve jokes, flexing one thin arm ridiculously although he grins at Bucky’s fond laughter. “Me and my spaghetti arms are here to keep you safe, Buck.” Beneath the teasing, he seems to mean his words and Bucky smiles, softening with love.

“Well, me and my remaining arm would like to extend that courtesy back to you,” Bucky says, smirk fixed firmly in place although the sparkle in his eye makes the words sound soft. It feels strange to joke about something that had – for a long time – seemed to mean that his life was ruined forever… but the loss of his arm doesn’t feel like that anymore. Bucky has adapted and kept his chin up. Steve has helped him learn how to carry on.

“You’re so brave,” Steve whispers, soft and sincere. “I love you so much, Buck.”

“You do?” Bucky asks, blue eyes gleaming in the shadows, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. Steve frees it with his thumb, pressing a soft kiss there instead.

“I do,” he promises before blushing faintly. “There I go again with the vows.” Steve’s shoulders slump fractionally as he sits back on the older man’s lap, his palms falling to rest lightly on Bucky’s chest. “Wish I could say ‘I do’ to you for real,” he whispers, like a secret.

“So do I, Stevie,” Bucky says heavily, looking thoroughly miserable for a moment before his eyes twinkle unexpectedly. “Y’know… we could just say it right now,” he suggests hesitantly, smiling like his heart _isn’t_ pounding under his boyfriend’s hands. “Who cares what other people think? _We’d_ know how important this is to us. I think that’s all that matters.”

Steve’s face has gone very, _very_ soft.

“You really mean that, Buck?” he asks gently, his eyes warm in the muted evening light. “Wanna be my husband?”

“Would if I could,” Bucky whispers, cheeks pink as he presses a soft kiss to Steve's lips. “I’d give anything.”

"So would I," Steve admits, blushing prettily although he raises an eyebrow at his boyfriend's expression. Bucky is grinning, eyes sparkling as he nudges Steve gently onto the couch beside him, propping himself up on his elbow.

“Go open the top drawer of the cabinet, Stevie,” he says mysteriously, smile growing. “Got a surprise for you.”

“More presents?” Steve asks, frowning faintly. “I didn’t get you anything else, Buck. I thought we’d exchanged all our gifts this morning.”

“This one’s different,” Bucky says in a softer voice, his cheeks heating as he bites his lip. “Look in the paper bag, Stevie,” he adds when his boyfriend simply stares down at their messy drawer of paper and various jumbled art supplies in confusion.

Steve picks the bag up with a soft rustle that sends Bucky’s heart racing in his chest. There is a tiny velvet box tucked inside the bag and Steve gasps when he sees it, his blue eyes widening in wonder and shock as he takes hold of it. The empty bag drifts down onto the floor through his shaking hands as he opens the box carefully, reverently, his eyes welling with tears as the ring inside glints in the soft light.

“Buck…” he croaks as the first tear boils over, clinging to his cheekbone before it drops down onto the wooden floor. “Buck, I can’t believe you –” He breaks off with a low sob, cradling the ring box in his hands like he’s just discovered buried treasure. Bucky’s expression is tender as he pushes himself clumsily into a sitting position, tucking his dark hair behind his ear as he watches his boyfriend lovingly.

“I know I can’t marry you for real, Stevie,” he begins, tone tentative as he rubs the back of his neck with undeniable bashfulness. “But… but if you _wanted_ to at least… well, I’d like you to wear the ring.” Bucky is the colour of a tomato now, flushed an endearing crimson as he suddenly finds the couch cushions incredibly interesting, unable to meet his boyfriend’s gaze. “It’s probably silly,” he says awkwardly, floundering a little. “I mean, I _know_ it is but –”

Steve launches himself at Bucky with a muffled sob, settling down warmly in the older man’s lap as he silences him with a kiss. Steve’s arms wind securely around Bucky’s shoulders, the ring box clenched firmly in his fist as he draws back a little, pressing his lips warmly to Bucky’s forehead.

“I wanna get you a ring too,” Steve whispers, two points of colour rising in his cheeks, soft golden hair rumpled as it tumbles down across his forehead. He kisses Bucky again, unable to stop himself, but his face softens when he sees the surprise on his boyfriend’s face.

“You really mean that?” Bucky whispers, his voice smaller than it’s ever been. Steve cradles his cheek gently, peppering Bucky’s nose with kisses until the older man laughs, screwing his face up as he pulls away.

“This wasn’t silly, Buck,” Steve promises, sobering as he cradles the ring box in his palms, his cheeks still damp with tears. “It was lovely. I wanna do that for you too. Wanna treat you the way you deserve.”

“No point getting me a ring, Stevie,” Bucky jokes like his eyes _aren’t_ glistening with tears. “Supposed to go on your left hand, isn’t it? I don’t have one anymore.” He barks out a laugh when Steve smacks him weakly on the shoulder, his lips curving into a relieved grin when the younger man can’t keep from kissing him.

“Damnit, Buck,” Steve whispers, his palm settling gently on what remains of Bucky’s left arm. “Enough with the horrible jokes.” His blue eyes are determined, his fingertips soft when he brushes Bucky’s lips, his thumb stroking his jaw. “I’m gonna buy you a damn ring, Barnes, and you’re gonna wear it,” Steve says firmly, trying not to laugh. “You got that?”

“Maybe,” Bucky says, shrugging innocently although his eyes glitter when Steve removes the ring from the box admiringly. He twists it in the light for a moment, taking in the gleam of the jewellery before he slides it onto his ring finger. Bucky’s heart feels too big for his chest but he fights to breathe past it, still reaching for his humour like a comfort blanket. “Y’know, you’re getting awfully big for your boots, Stevie. Who’re you to tell me what to do?”

“How about your husband?” Steve points out gleefully and… yeah, Bucky will probably never get tired of hearing that. A delighted laugh escapes Steve without his permission when Bucky stretches up to kiss him and they both giggle into each other’s mouths, smiling too wide to deepen the kiss.

“Oh, that was so smooth, Rogers,” Bucky teases, pretty eyes sparkling with joy. In that moment, it doesn’t seem to matter that Steve is thirty eight years old because Bucky makes him feel like a child again, so full of enthusiasm and joy, and excitement for whatever life has in store. It’s refreshing to feel that way again, after so many years. Bucky’s love is like sunshine on his skin.

“I love you,” Steve says, his smile turning watery when he feels Bucky’s thumb smoothing over the ring where it is nestled around Steve’s finger. They both gaze down together in awe and Bucky opens his mouth several times to speak before he finally has the breath required to make a sound.

“I love you too,” he says faintly, his eyes glittering like he can hardly believe his luck. “You _really_ wanna do this, Stevie?” His words are soft and scared, and Steve kisses him gently, lingering there until Bucky smiles against his lips.

“I do, Buck,” he promises, his eyes fluttering shut as their foreheads fall to rest together. “I do.”

“Good,” Bucky murmurs, his voice softer still. There is a moment of silence as Steve takes his hand, entwining their fingers determinedly. Bucky lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding. “I do too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading and I hope you enjoyed this update :)  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3


	5. Spring, 1958

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, everyone! I'm really sorry for the delay but I'm back and the story is almost over!  
> Just a couple of chapters to go...  
> Fingers crossed you'll all enjoy this :)

There are flowers growing in the garden beyond their kitchen window. Bucky can see the waxy yellow petals of the daffodils as he leans against the wooden counter, sipping from a mug of coffee. The clock on the wall is ticking softly, alerting him to the fact that he still has just under an hour to finish getting ready before leaving for work. He feels content.

Steve is sitting at the kitchen table nearby, his blond hair in disarray from Bucky’s fingers the night before, his blue eyes still heavy with sleep. He’s nibbling on a piece of fruit, doodling idly on the cover of yesterday’s newspaper as he props his chin up on his palm.

The sound of the mail hitting the doormat can be heard and Bucky pads out automatically to retrieve it, cursing softly when he realises that his only hand is currently occupied with his mug of coffee.

“You okay, Buck?” Steve calls distractedly, his words a little distorted around his mouthful of banana.

“Yeah,” Bucky replies, grimacing as he sets his mug down on the floor and grabs the envelopes. He tucks them under his chin, holding them there awkwardly as he retrieves his coffee from its place on the doormat. “Forgot I only had one hand. Guess I figured I was going to bring the mail back to you in my mouth like a dog.”

“You’d make a lovely dog,” Steve says nonsensically as he yawns, apparently still only half-awake as Bucky returns his mug to the countertop, reaching to drop the mail on the kitchen table. “You’re gentle and easy to train too apparently,” Steve adds, smirking. “Maybe you’d be a Labrador.”

“And _you’d_ be a Jack Russell,” Bucky says, snickering with laughter when Steve reaches to swat at him with the rolled-up newspaper. “You’re rambunctious and prone to snapping.”

“Punk!” Steve says grumpily, trying not to smile as he reaches for the mail. “I’m meant to be your _husband_ , Buck,” he points out, grinning before he can stop himself. “Couldn’t you have called me my favourite breed of dog? Would it had been _that_ hard?”

“Stevie,” Bucky says slowly, his voice serious as his lips twitch with amusement. “The last thing in the world you are is a Great Dane. I’m sorry but that’s just the way it is.”

“Punk,” Steve repeats, sniggering now as he opens a letter addressed to him. Bucky sips his coffee as he watches the younger man fondly, taking in his sparkling eyes and the faint frown growing on his face as he scans the text. “What the –”

“Stevie?” Bucky asks, biting his lip. “What is it?”

Steve is staring at him with wide eyes now, looking utterly lost as he lays the letter down on the table, smoothing it under shaking palms.

“Do you remember that Irish guy at my mom’s funeral?” he asks, the question seemingly coming out of nowhere. “The long lost relative I’d never met before.”

“Yeah…” Bucky frowns, completely perplexed. “Stevie, what’s going on?”

“Well, he’s dead,” Steve says, his expression saturated with uncertainty as his gaze drifts over the text again. “Passed away a short while ago.” He doesn’t look sad exactly – more melancholy instead, as the Rogers family dwindles once more – but Bucky goes to him anyway, resting his remaining hand comfortingly on the younger man’s shoulder as he leans down to read the letter too.

“Oh no,” Bucky murmurs when he deciphers the swirling inky letters. “So his wife passed away too?”

“Must’ve done,” Steve says sadly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip. “Looks like they’ve left a kid behind.” He shivers, clearly thinking of his own childhood without a father and how deeply the loss of his mother cut him too. “Buck, did you see the bottom of the letter?” he whispers, heart racing as he lifts the creased paper higher, making it easier for Bucky to read the words.

Bucky falls silent as he processes what he’s reading, his heart aching at the thought of the poor orphan left behind, stuck living in a neighbour’s house with nowhere left to go. He’s glad the neighbour thought to write to Steve. He hopes they can help.

When Bucky lets the letter flutter back down onto the table, he finds Steve watching him warily, his lips pressed together, a worried expression on his handsome face. Bucky cradles his jaw, his fingertips smoothing gently through the short blond hairs growing at the base of Steve’s skull.

“You want to help, don’t you, Stevie?” Bucky guesses, his tone warm and knowing. Steve blushes, ducking his head.

“I just don’t like the thought of leaving the kid all by themselves,” he admits, shoulders slumping. “But I know it’s a big ask so if you’re not convinced, we don’t have to –”

“Quit it, Stevie,” Bucky gently reprimands him, his eyes soft and twinkling. “Of course we’ll take the kid in.”

It doesn’t matter that they don’t know anything about the child – not their age or their gender or even their name – because family is family, and Steve and Bucky are endgame.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading!  
> I would love to hear what you thought <3


	6. Autumn, 1958

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, everyone! Sorry for the delay but I'm back now and we're almost done :)  
> I hope you enjoy this!

It is a cold, bright day when Rose finally arrives in Brooklyn. 

She is small for five years old, her freckled nose scrunched at the smell of the steam filling the train station, her blue eyes bright and clever. She hovers shyly behind the neighbour Margaret who has taken such good care of her over the last six months, clinging to the woman’s skirt as she fixes Steve and Bucky with a solemn look. 

Bucky doesn’t usually like to come back to the train station. It reminds him too much of how he’d felt when he’d returned from the war: like the hollowed-out shell of a man who didn’t deserve Steve’s love. He doesn’t feel like that today though; not when there is a tiny girl gazing up at him like he is a particularly complicated puzzle she would like to solve. 

While Steve is talking to Margaret in a serious voice, the little girl does her best to watch Bucky subtly. She seems wary of him; of his towering height and the injury that sends so many people running from him. He doesn’t let it bother him though; plenty of people stare and he supposes it’s how they learn. There’s no point letting it hurt his feelings. 

When Bucky catches Rose’s gaze, she blushes brightly at being caught out and he offers her a gentle smile, keen to show her that he isn’t a threat. She hesitates for a moment before smiling timidly back, dimples creasing her cheeks, button nose pink with the cold. 

“I like your hair,” she whispers to him, like she’s telling a secret. Her Irish accent is strong, her tiny hands buried in the thick fur of the teddy bear she’s cuddling to her chest. “It’s long.” 

“It used to be longer,” Bucky whispers back, his lips curving upwards when her eyes widen in surprise. “Came way past my shoulders.” 

“ _Really_?” she breathes, awestruck. Her own golden hair is short and curly, barely brushing the underside of her jaw. 

“Yep,” he says, nodding. “Stevie here used to plait it for me sometimes while I read to him. Isn’t that right, Stevie?” 

“Quite right, Buck,” Steve agrees as he looks away from Margaret, his expression softening at the sight of Bucky and Rose making friends. “I’m pretty good at styling hair.” 

“He can do princess hair,” Bucky adds, fighting to keep his tone solemn and not smile like he wants to. Rose bounces a little in excitement upon hearing this and Margaret relaxes visibly, apparently content in the knowledge that the little girl will be well-cared for here in Brooklyn. 

“Why don’t we go back to the house now, yeah?” Steve suggests warmly, keeping his voice as soothing as he can make it. The little girl still bites her lip nervously but Margaret reaches to squeeze her hand and Bucky is relieved when Rose relaxes. He and Steve had already agreed that Margaret will stay with them for the weekend to make sure Rose is settled, and Bucky can see now that this was a good idea. 

“We have some chocolate chip cookies at home,” Bucky tells Rose in a conspiratorial voice. “Stevie can’t eat them because he’s allergic but he baked them just for you.” 

“For me?” Rose repeats, smiling despite herself. “I can eat _all_ of them?” 

“Maybe not in one go,” Steve says, grinning. “You’ll be too full up for lunch then.” 

“I don’t know about that, Stevie,” Bucky teases, smiling brazenly. “Cookies for lunch sounds like a pretty smart idea to me.” 

“Me too,” Rose agrees, her blue eyes sparkling as her grin widens. 

Steve exchanges a long-suffering look with Margaret which goes no way to hiding the fondness in his eyes. 

“I’m going to have my hands full with you two, aren’t I?” he says lightly, his tone far too soft to hold any sort of bitterness at all. “They’ll eat me out of house and home.” 

Rose giggles and something in Steve’s chest softens when he sees the fond look Bucky levels at her. 

There is something of Steve’s mother around Rose’s eyes and Steve wonders if it’s possible to love her already. 

He thinks he might. His heart feels too big for his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading :)  
> I can't wait to hear what you thought!  
> Only one chapter to go...


	7. Summer, 1964

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!  
> The last chapter is here and I am an emotional mess because I will miss writing these babies so much <3  
> I really hope you'll all enjoy this :)

Rose’s birthday is a week after Steve’s.

She’s just turned eleven and the world is crackling with exciting possibilities around her. Rose loves the flowers blooming on the green and the wheezy laughs that escape Steve when her jokes are enough to make him forget his asthma. She loves when Bucky lets her comb his hair; loves the way he hums contentedly and pretends to purr, butting at her hand like a little cat until she’s giggling and wriggling away from him.

Rose loves her two uncles more than she loves anything else in the world. She feels so special and safe in their household; likes the feeling of contentedness that wraps around her like a blanket when they do whatever they can to keep her happy.

Rose likes watching the way they are with each other too; likes the softness and the fondness that they’ve never been able to hide, no matter how much the rest of the world might sneer at them. Rose is so proud of her honorary fathers; hopes one day maybe _she’ll_ find that sort of pure true love too… but only if she’s very, _very_ lucky.

There aren’t many people who shine as brightly as Steve and Bucky do. Rose is lucky enough just to have them taking care of her. She could never ask for more than that. They’re good parents, even if they don’t always believe it sometimes. They make her feel secure and loved; they make her laugh when she’s sad and they dry her tears, and they teach her what it means to have honour and integrity, and to truly love herself and the world around her.

Rose isn’t sure what would have become of her if she hadn’t ended up living with Steve and Bucky but she’s grateful she never had to find out. Rose’s world is a brighter place in Brooklyn with her uncles. These days, she is always laughing and smiling; bright eyes sparkling like sapphires, white teeth gleaming behind upturned lips.

Steve makes her want to be the best she can be with a simple smile. Bucky makes her want to be braver than she’s ever been.

Rose wants to be just like them when she’s older. She’s never admired anyone that way before; never gazed at someone and thought: “I want that. That is what I need in order to be happy.” Steve and Bucky have changed her life in more ways than she can count.

Rose likes drawing and is utterly enthralled with motorcycles. She likes travelling and riding in the car, and singing at the kitchen table with Bucky while Steve makes them dinner. Bucky is teaching Rose self-defence. Steve is teaching her the art of still life.

Rose has asthma and a stubborn streak, and she hates strawberries even more than Bucky – a fact that delights him and peeves Steve in equal measure. Her Irish accent is fading but the lilt of it remains when she’s excited and her eyes glitter the same way they did at the train station all those years before.

Rose is so, so cherished.

She’s never felt love like it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's taken the time to read this series :)  
> I really hope you've all enjoyed it!  
> I'd love to hear what you thought <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading :)  
> I'd love to hear what you thought!  
> Also, if anyone wants to cry about Stucky with me, hit me up because I'm having ALL. THE. FEELINGS.


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